"I think I’d like to do some sort of dance scene cameo, yeah. Like maybe a stark view of what happens when you get older, but on the dance floor. An interpretative dance about aging, if you will."
—Gabby Hoffman riffing on a potential cameo in the Now and Then tv show
"There’s no such thing as a selfless act, right? My self-image is so ambitious, I want to feel good about myself, and I want to generally be good, and thought of that way. I don’t know if I’ve ever come to terms with it. That part that is selfish and weird and greedy is part of me, and that’s always going to be a part of me, no matter how much I try to cover it up. It’s like watching my dogs misbehave, it’s like, ‘Oh you, you’re doing that again.’ I live with these parts of myself and I don’t think I can change them, but I can find loopholes to try to circumvent them. When you’re aware of those things, you can more consciously control them, and make sure you’re not being shitty all the time."
This is one of the reasons why I think the internet will always have an ace up its sleeve no matter what bad rap it (deservedly) earns. It’s really good to talk about feeling selfish and weird and greedy with friends, and it’s also really good to find people talking about it openly online. There’s something about public speech on being shitty that, although this may sound overblown, is humanizing. Maybe people used to talk with this much transparent messiness in print magazines and newspapers? Maybe? I just don’t think so.
The Pumpkin Tree
Up a lattice of sumac and into the spars
of the elderberry, the first pumpkin vine had climbed,
and a week after first frost
great pendulous melons dangled like gods
among the bunches of lesser berries
and the dazzled, half-drunken birds.
Then the pumpkins fell, each mythical fruit’s
dried umbilicus giving way in a rush
of gold and snow of elliptical leaves.
A skull thud, the dull thunk of rupture,
a thin smoke then, like a soul, like dust.
But the last, high up and lodged
in a palm of limbs and pithy branches,
sways now in the slightest breeze and freeze
after freeze caves in on itself
and will, by spring, cast its black
leathery gaze out over the garden
like the mummy of a saint or an infirm
and desiccated pope. Below, where the others fell,
that seed not eaten by winter birds,
one, say, buried in meat and a sheath
of skin, will rise. From its blunt,
translucent nubbin, a leaf trifoliate
and a stalk as succulent as bamboo, it will climb
blithe as a baby Christ up the knees
of the wood it cannot know it is bound for.